Darkside

Reynolds realized that this must be the alleyway Jonas had told him about – the one where the stranger had given him the slip. He hadn’t taken Jonas seriously. He’d dismissed the report as parochial paranoia, and he had only written it down to make Jonas feel he was being listened to. For that reason, he hadn’t reported it to Marvel.

Reynolds regretted that, of course. But the idea of telling Marvel about it now and being shat on from a great height was less than appealing.

They walked back to the entrance to the alleyway. People were passing regularly now, and the snow on the pavement around the shop was melting in dirty brown patches. The prints that they themselves had made were already all but obliterated. Prints made in the early hours of the morning would be gone by now for sure.

Marvel stepped into the road and stared glumly up and down as if he might still spot the killer.

‘Bollocks,’ he said again.

‘Hold on,’ said Reynolds with sudden urgency. He pointed back into the courtyard, where the Spar bags fluttered against the wall.

‘Two plastic bags.’

‘You found some litter,’ said Marvel. ‘Well done, Reynolds. Have a fucking Blue Peter badge.’

Reynolds ignored him. ‘Two bags, two feet! He puts the bags on his feet so he doesn’t leave identifiable prints. Then he comes in here and takes them off—’

‘And walks back into the slush and disappears,’ finished Marvel, catching up fast and hurrying over.

Reynolds snapped on gloves and picked the bags up. ‘That means there could be prints inside the bags.’

Reynolds looked as pleased as punch, but even that couldn’t stop Marvel feeling a lift in his own spirits.

They stared at the white bags with the green and red logo, and wondered whether this odd little scene would spell a change in their luck.

* * *

In the grey light of morning the snow on the moor looked dull and worn out, and the narrow strip of road was just a sunken impression in the bumpy landscape. All the white was disorientating and Jonas had to work hard to keep focused on the route ahead. It was as if the moor and the murders were conspiring to confuse him, using optical illusions to obfuscate the truth of the killings and the landscape alike, and to blur the two into one. A blanket of snow had descended on Shipcott, but under that coating of purity something dark and evil was going about its work, unseen and unchecked.

Jonas thought of the notes that had first alerted him to some undercurrent of discord.

He thought of that prickly feeling that he was being watched. Observed.

Judged.

He thought of staring into the small yellow square of his own bathroom while standing like a cold giant under the starlit sky; of the stiff greyhound with the cloudy eyes; and of the man in the hat and the herringbone treads who had given him the slip.

He remembered the brittle hope in Danny Marsh’s eyes as the dirty horse pranced behind him, and the irrational fear that he was personally under threat – that if the hope in Danny’s eyes had shattered, the shards would pierce him too; and that he must stop Danny at all costs, even if it was with his fists.

Jonas fought sudden panic and the Land Rover slewed sideways and bumped over the invisible heather. He lifted his foot and gripped the wheel and slammed on the brakes. The car stalled and Jonas sat for a moment, high above Withypool, and listened to his own harsh breathing ruin the silence, while he slowly kept himself from falling apart.

* * *

After giving the plastic bags to a CSI back at Sunset Lodge, Marvel and Reynolds met Grey and Singh at Gary Liss’s home – this time to break in. They had taken a battering ram with them but after they had knocked, even Marvel felt self-conscious about getting it out in the middle of a village like Shipcott and breaking down the door of a crooked little cottage with a black wrought-iron door knocker in the shape of a pixie.

‘Fairy,’ he grunted at Reynolds, who resolutely didn’t laugh.

Instead they efficiently broke the small pane of glass in the door and Grey, who was the tallest – and had ‘the arms of a rangatang’ as Marvel put it – leaned awkwardly through to open the Yale.

Inside was neat and decorated with a deft touch, which made the most of the bowed walls and limited light.

‘You’ve got to give it to these gays,’ said Marvel. ‘They do know how to tidy up.’

There was no sign of Liss – or that he had been here since leaving for work last night.

Marvel put latex gloves on and the others followed suit, and they started their careful search for anything that might incriminate Gary Liss.

They worked in two teams – Marvel and Singh upstairs, Reynolds and Grey downstairs.

‘What are we looking for, sir?’ said Singh.

‘Murder weapon would be nice,’ said Marvel.

They bagged up Gary Liss’s shoes, then searched for an hour with decreasing levels of optimism, before Singh found an old King Edward VII cigar box at the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe. He glanced inside and immediately alerted Marvel.